The Night That God Died
by Lillebule
Summary: A short fic from Claude's POV, after Esmeralda dies.
1. End

Hey all, sorry it took so long for me to write this, but here it is, a companion piece to "Without You I'm Gone." It's a Claude oneshot. Oddly I wrote this, while listening to The Finale from Les Mis…"To love another person is to see the face of God." Hope you all like it, constructive criticism is appreciated, flames not so much.

* * *

There were no signs of destruction; the world was calm, and still that day…that night. The earth had not opened up and swallowed him whole, although it might have just as well done so.

It was on a clear night, no clouds. He could number each star he saw, but just as he had begun counting the feel of a smooth metal blade entered deep into his heart.

He cried out, hoping his voice would travel, hoping that someone was still awake at this late hour. He cried out, with the realization that not a sound had passed his lips.

As he gasped for air, he watched as the familiar stars began to take on a new, more dangerous shape. They began to twist, and he saw her; her naked form, a sight so terrible to his eyes, that he hid them, hoping that by not looking at the figure before him she would not see him.

The stars smiled down upon him, kissing and licking his lips, just as he had always longed for _HER_ to do. He felt her soft, warm hands slide beneath his cassock, as they caressed, lingering over his most forbidden places. Frustrated, he groaned, and could feel a distant heat rise within him. He feared that _THEY _would sense it, and at the same time, hoped that she would sense it.

He found himself lost in the night sky, shoving her hands away, remembering for a brief moment what it was like to have a clear head. He looked back up at the same night sky, searching for what had once been there. It had never been there, it had only been a figment of his imagination, and it would now know that something had taken its place.

He once again racked his brain, trying to find traces of his lost love, of the endless toil, but found that on this night, nothing remained. For the first time he saw clearly, the face of God.


	2. Late Evening

Late evening had set in. He sat there, at his desk, his head lying sideways on a large book, his hand gripping a small red vial. He lazily turned the vial this way and that, letting it catch the remaining rays of sun, letting it entice him. He would be willing to fall victim to its spell.

He happily listened to the silence, a symphony not heard by him for many months. It was a convincing and dangerous sound. In this silence, he heard whispers; ancient beings deciding upon what they should have him do. One sip of that murky liquid would cause hallucinations, followed by searing pain. Perhaps it would not lead to death, but he would pray for it all the same. Two sips would cause his stomach to burn and he would become nauseous, doubling over with uncontrollable vomiting. He wondered if it was worth it. Frighteningly, it was. Three sips would be the last of the liquid and of him.

His eyes began to tear, as he wondered what death would feel like; he wondered if it would be like falling asleep. He wondered what God would look like, what he would say, what he would say to God. That was, if God was the one he would be seeing. It was plausible that he would not see God, that he would see The Devil instead. And what if she was there? Would she remember him? Would she still hate him, or would she forgive him?

He suddenly realized that he was weeping and wiped the few tears from his cheeks. Vial in hand, he stood up. He gripped the vial, as though it was the hand of his guide. He let the hand lead him to the balustrade. Peering down into the square he almost longed to see her. Had she been there, the need for the vial would be null and void. She would be alive and there would be some reason to live.

He opened the small vial, sniffing the dark liquid within. A pungent odor hit him, almost knocking him to his knees. The vial, like her held hidden warnings. He cautiously brought the vial to his lips, letting the guide gently kiss his lips. In one sip, the world began to melt into some unrecognizable medley of colors. His knees felt wobbly, and his arms felt detached from his torso. He felt the ground shake, though he knew in the back of his mind that everything had remained calm and still. He had taken one sip and had already lost track of time. One sip, two sips…one more sip and every question would be answered.


	3. Early Evening

Author's Note.

First, I would like to say a BIG thanks to all who have reviewed.

I have been slowly working on this piece and will soon be adding a new chapter.

I am actually writing this story backwards. Basically the first chapter is the end of the story. For those who feel that the beginning…or the end I should say was too abstract; those who are a bit confused as to what exactly is going on, the next chapter will answer that.

For this fic, I basically pulled a George Lucas. Truthfully, I wasn't sure if I was going to add anything to this story, but everyone has been commenting primarily on how short the story is. At the time I just wanted a short, abstract piece. Now, I feel the need to add to it.

As for the companion pieces to this fic, they might get a new chapter or two as well. I haven't really thought too much about them just yet.


	4. Afternoon

Hey all. Once again, thanks for your reviews. I'm not sure if this will be the last chapter or not…I sort of want it to be. It was actually a lot of fun writing this piece, and I hope those who reviewed this piece will review my others. I do plan on making "Without You, I'm Gone" a bit longer, as I have some good ideas for that one. So, keep your eyes peeled for that one.

He had been present, had been down in the crowd. As he watched the girl be carried up the steps of the gibbet, he wanted to scream out, to in some way stop the execution. But, he knew that once he did so, all eyes would be on him. There would be hushed whispers and fingers pointed, questions of why he, the archdeacon of Josas would want to save some Egyptian girl. And he would feel obliged to say something, that or he would run away, afraid to face what might happen next. He choked down the word "stop!" He choked down any need to save her. In his lifetime of knowledge, of study, did not know how he could save her, at least not without himself being dragged up those same steps. He could confess, it was not too late for that. But, there was no guarantee that he would not hang beside her today. His face went white as the rope was placed around her neck. He now questioned why he had not just run off with her, why he had given her up to Gudule. They could have been miles away from Paris now. The fact remained that they were not, and that soon she would be dead, he soon would feel guilt set in.

His mind scrambled to find some way of saving her. For a brief moment he looked up, remembering that the captain could save her. He would go run and fetch the captain. He would stop everything, the people would see that he was still alive…and…and…and she would see him. She would rush to his arms and she would cry in his arms. He would have to witness what he thought to be worse than her death. Claude hung his head in dismay. And then, perhaps the captain would not stop the execution at all, perhaps he was too busy with some other girl. For a brief moment, head hung, he silently prayed that Quasimodo would rush down and save the girl once again. The girl would once again be safe, and they could escape from Paris! For a moment he was hopeful.

But why would God listen to his prayers now? God was just some imaginary being cooked up by man to give meaning to life and death, God was just some temporary fix to a permanent problem. No, God did not exist, so there was no more use in praying.

He shook his head, wondering why God was not listening, wondering why nothing had happened yet. And then he heard the crowd cheer. And then he looked up, realizing that something had just happened.

She was twirling in little circles, the ground had disappeared beneath her. He had not heard her last words, he wondered what they were and at the same time did not wish to know. He wondered if she had asked for forgiveness, if she too had been praying. He now wondered what her prayers had been for.

He knew that tomorrow morning he would wake, he would look outside his window and he would see her there, dancing as always. He decided then and there that he could not deal with that sight. It was time to take matters into his own hands, something he had never really done before.

As the crowd dissipated, he found himself still standing, staring at the ground. He could take his life right then and there, take a dagger and plunge it into his heart. In that moment the thought of the act made sense. The act of killing himself made sense, however the method was too quick.


End file.
